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and that knowledge gave him misery. He gambled; he betrayed his promises. He was a feared fighter in the tournaments of Europe, yet felt himself to be weak. He knew his uncle despised him, but now, before the glittering altar and under the stern voice of Father Marchant, he sensed he had found his salvation. He was a Knight of the Fisherman, given a task by the church and promised a reward in heaven. He felt his soul lift to the moment’s solemnity, and he swore to himself that he would serve this company of men with all his heart and strength.
    ‘Stay and pray,’ Father Marchant told the men, ‘for tomorrow we set forth on our mission.’
    ‘God be thanked,’ Robbie said.
    And Sculley farted. A noise that echoed off the abbey’s walls and seemed to linger.
    ‘Jesus,’ Sculley said, ‘that was a wet one.’
    The Order of the Fisherman was consecrated and would go to war.
     
    ‘The secret,’ Thomas said, ‘is to put a bolt in the groove.’
    ‘A bolt?’
    ‘A quarrel. An arrow?’
    ‘Ah!’ the woman said. ‘I knew I’d forgotten something. That happens when you get ancient. You forget things. My husband did show me how to use one of these things,’ she put the crossbow on a small wooden bench that stood between two orange trees, ‘but I never did shoot one. I was tempted to shoot him, though. Are you running away?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘We’re getting wet. Come inside.’ The woman was old and bent, a tiny thing, hardly reaching Thomas’s waist. Her face was shrewd, wrinkled and dark. She wore a nun’s habit, but over it was a rich cloak of crimson wool trimmed with miniver.
    ‘Where am I?’ Thomas asked.
    ‘You jumped into a convent. Saint Dorcas’s convent. I suppose I should welcome you, so welcome.’
    ‘Saint Dorcas?’
    ‘She was full of good works, they tell me, so I’m sure she was a terrible bore.’ The old woman went through a low doorway and Thomas, following her, picked up the crossbow. It was a beautiful weapon with a dark walnut stock inlaid with silver. ‘It belonged to my husband,’ the woman told him, ‘and I have so little of his that I keep it so I can remember him. Not that I really wish to remember him. He was a peculiarly nasty man, rather like his son.’
    ‘His son?’ Thomas asked, putting the crossbow on a table.
    ‘My son, too. The Count of Malbuisson. I am the dowager countess of the same county.’
    ‘My lady,’ Thomas said, and bowed to her.
    ‘Goodness me! Manners are not dead!’ the countess said happily, then sat in a well-cushioned chair and patted her lap. For a heartbeat Thomas thought she wanted him to sit there, but then, to his relief, a grey cat came from behind a chest and leaped onto her knees. She waved as if suggesting Thomas could sit anywhere, though he remained standing. The room was small, just four or five paces in each direction, yet filled with furniture that seemed to belong to a great hall. There was a table draped with a tapestry, two big chests, a bench, and three chairs. Four massive silver candlesticks stood on the table with some bowls, plates, and an ornate chess set, while on the limewashed walls hung a crucifix and three leather panels, one painted with a hunting scene, another with a ploughman, and the third showing a shepherd and his flock. A tapestry depicting two unicorns in a grove of roses hung over a small arch, presumably hiding the countess’s bedchamber. ‘And you are?’ the countess asked.
    ‘My name is Thomas.
    ‘Thomas! Is that English? Or Norman? You sound English, I think.’
    ‘I’m English, though my father was French.’
    ‘I always liked mongrels,’ the countess said. ‘Why are you running away?’
    ‘It’s a very long story.’
    ‘I like long stories. I have been shut away here, because otherwise I would be spending money that my daughter-in-law would prefer to squander, so here I am with nothing but nuns to keep me company. They’re dear women,’ she paused, ‘on the whole, but quite tedious. You will find some wine on the table. It isn’t very good wine, but better than no wine. I like mine mixed with water, which is in the Spanish jug. So who is chasing you?’
    ‘Everyone.’
    ‘You must be a very wicked man! How splendid! What did you do?’
    ‘I’m accused of heresy,’ Thomas said, ‘and of abducting another man’s wife.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ the countess said. ‘Would you be very charming and give me that blanket? The dark one? It’s rarely cold here, but today is